


be my, be mine, valentine

by portraitofemmy



Series: the one with the dog [12]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Being Young And Queer in New York, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Come Shot, Comeplay, Dates, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Heart-to-Heart, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Not Season/Series 05 compliant, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Rimming, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Valentine's Day, filthy messy sex honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: "So you don't need to buy me bad chocolate to get in my pants," Quentin replies, coming down off his toes and catching sight of Eliot's pout. Then the oranges are absent from Eliot's hands, which is convenient, because it means he can put them on Quentin’s waist as Q turns back from the fridge, oranges safely stowed. "I'm easy, baby, just smile at me and I'm yours."Eliot smiles, reflex, and Quentin hums, pushing up to kiss it off his mouth.Eliot and Quentin share their first Valentine's Day together
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: the one with the dog [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1404727
Comments: 34
Kudos: 285





	be my, be mine, valentine

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [ propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) for enabling my nonsense. Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

It's Quentin who suggests they skip Valentine's Day gifts.

"It's just like– tacky right?" he points out while they're grocery shopping, looking down the aisle of pink-cellophane wrapped cardboard hearts. 

"I guess it is," Eliot agrees, because hey, not like he really wants a box of Hershey's kisses either. But still–

"No gifts at all?" he asks, later, putting milk and yogurt and Julia's ridiculous bottled kombucha in the fridge while Quentin strains up on his toes to replace a box of rice in the cupboard. A little strip of his skin shows just at his hips, where his black button up brushes the tops of his jeans. Eliot absently thinks about putting his mouth on that skin, and stacks leeks in the fridge.

"I mean, we live together," Quentin points out, like that somehow takes the romance out of their relationship. Eliot frowns. Personally he feels very romanced by waking up with Quentin’s hair in his mouth, or the daily walks littered with dog shit. 

"So?" he asks, pouting over some oranges when Quentin looks over at him.

"So you don't need to buy me bad chocolate to get in my pants," Quentin replies, coming down off his toes and catching sight of Eliot's pout. Then the oranges are absent from Eliot's hands, which is convenient, because it means he can put them on Quentin’s waist as Q turns back from the fridge, oranges safely stowed. "I'm easy, baby, just smile at me and I'm yours."

Eliot smiles, reflex, and Quentin hums, pushing up to kiss it off his mouth. "So no fuzzy pink handcuffs?" he confirms, teasing, once his mouth is his own again.

"El, if you're feeling like getting more elaborate than creative uses of your ties, then that's a conversation we can have and stuff we can pick out together."

"Wait," Eliot says, distracted, "go back to that again? Let's have that conversation now."

Which, okay, they don’t exactly make it _back_ on topic after that. But it does end up with Quentin’s arms spread wide, hands looped to the headboard with the aforementioned ties while Eliot rides him, Eliot’s palm cupped _oh so gentle_ around the tender stretch of Quentin’s throat. And yeah, murmuring “You’re so fucking pretty, baby, god, fuck, love how good you are for me,” to a blissed out Quentin while Eliot grinds Q’s lovely dick against his prostate in slow, steady drags is maybe the _best way to end grocery shopping ever_ , it doesn’t exactly resolve the issue of Valentine’s Day. 

No gifts, okay, Eliot can respect that. It would be a bit late to put together a fitting gift anyway. But letting the day go by as if it’s just a normal Friday doesn’t feel right either. Not that there’s anything wrong with their normal Fridays, but _‘oh, pick up pizza and wine on your way home from wherever you’ve been sent by whichever friend is using you for menial tasks today’_ just doesn’t quite have the _panache_ that Eliot’s looking for.

"I'm making us dinner reservations," he says, a couple days later. "For Valentine's Day."

"Okay," Quentin agrees, distracted, not looking up from where he's seated on the floor, poking through the circumstances for a magical object repair. The broken amulet had come through one of Kady's black market contacts, along with a hefty price for its repair. Q’d been visibly, obviously fascinated by it the moment Kady presented it, taking the amulet and talking to it like it was– a puppy or a baby, or something. He’s been poking at it ever since, a collection of colored lenses spread around him in a circle, notebook on his lap. Really, he's distressingly cute. "Maybe we can go to that fancy Mexican place we've been talking about trying."

"Right, because when I think sexy food, I think _beans_."

Quentin rolls his eyes, bratty little bitch that he is. "Sorry, my bad, please make us a reservation at the cheese fondue and whip cream restaurant."

Eliot grins, helplessly delighted, and rolls off the couch to catch Quentin's face, his neck, shower him with kisses as he squawks in protest. The commotion attracts the dog, of course, who trots over to see what all the fuss is about. It's probably a good thing, lest they end up hands down each other's pants in the living room at 4pm again. Instead, they end up tossing a rope toy around for her for a while, tussling and tumbling on the floor until they all collapse in a heap.

“I’m kind of surprised you care so much about this,” Quentin says, from the region of Eliot’s solar plexus. At Eliot’s enquiring noise, he clarifies, “Valentine’s Day. You’re usually the one who’s pretentiously above things.”

“I think that’s both of us, baby,” Eliot points out dryly, like Quentin doesn’t start every conversation about a TV-show-based-on-a-book by mentioning six times that he’s read the book. “I don’t know. It’s our first Valentine’s Day today. It seems like it should mean something, even if it is just kind of an arbitrary day.”

“You know that whole myth about St. Valentine marrying soldiers who were forbidden to marry thing is made up, right? They were literally told they could have two or three wives at that time,” Quentin says over the gentle tinkle of Dessy’s collar as he scratches her neck. 

“Hail to the polyamorous dead,” Eliot sighs, petting his hand over Q’s hair. The strands are soft, silky, under his palms, long enough now to hang in Q’s face a little. “I don’t know, darling. It’s not that important. We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to,” Quentin sighs, rolling over so his chin is propped up on Eliot’s stomach, a hand’s breadth from the knot of scar tissue that still aches when the magic surges hit. “I’m just kind of surprised you do, I guess. But I shouldn’t be, you kind of went whole-hog for secular Christmas.”

“Pretending stuff doesn’t matter is so last season,” Eliot quips, eyes falling closed, thinking about– _Quentin’s face, shining happily in the sunlight at Pride, his dorky t-shirt and the baby puppy in his arms_. Eliot decided, then, on that day, the kind of life he wanted to live. “Hedonism is pleasure without shame, Q. Indulge with me.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Quentin says pointedly, but he’s smiling a little when Eliot looks down at him.

“Come kiss me, then,” Eliot challenges, no real big ask at all, and Quentin does.

___

“Has Q always been anti-Valentine’s Day?” Eliot asks Julia, a couple of nights later, as he pulls up a seat next to her at their shitty dive bar of choice. It’s barren but for the regulars, and Julia had claimed their usual table by the dart board before Eliot and Kady had even arrived from putting out the metaphoric and literal fires of the latest magic surge.

Kady’s at the bar with Q now, who’d only just arrived, lone wolf left at the penthouse today. Eliot watches him absently, the awkward way he stacks his feet as he leans both elbows on the bar on the bar, listening to whatever Kady’s telling him. The light sweater he’s wearing looks eminently huggable, deep green against the blue of the jeans he’d let Eliot pick out for him, and really, Eliot’s being very well behaved for not being all wrapped around him already. Instead he’s sitting with Julia, bad leg extended into an extra chair so maybe his knee will stop screaming at him, asking about Valentine’s Day.

“I don’t really know?” Julia admits, wrinkling her nose a little in thought. “I don’t actually know if any of the like– couple of relationships he had ever made it to Valentine’s Day. He did the normal stuff when we were kids, you know, and then high school... I guess he was kinda weird about it. But it always struck me as like, being bitchy about it because no one wanted to go to the dance with him.”

“ _He_ wanted to go to the dance?” Eliot asks, skeptical, and Julia’s eyes twinkle.

“Well. He didn’t have anyone to blow it off with him,” she rephrases, tipping her head a little. “He convinced me to, one year. My sister bought us wine coolers and we got drunk in the park.”

“Delinquents,” Eliot sighs, shaking his head, already grinning. “Honestly, that sounds more fun than a dance.”

“We were Ivy-League bound over achievers, up to our eyeballs in AP classes, of course we blew off steam explosively,” Julia says, amused, her husky voice warm and familiar. 

“What’s explosive?” Quentin asks, as he and Kady approach, a pint glass of beer in one hand and Eliot’s whiskey sour in the other. “My request for wings was vetoed, we have fries coming though.”

“Literally do not want to spend my night watching you gnaw on a bone,” Kady grumbles, disgusted, passing Julia her cocktail.

“I can still kick your ass at darts without the wings,” Quentin says, displaying a truly staggering amount of self-confidence for a man who has beaten her _once_. Then to Eliot, he repeats, “What’s explosive?”

“Your delinquent youth, apparently.” At Quentin’s confused little frown, Eliot waves it away, tugging him down for a soft kiss. Least he soon perish in the fire that is Kady’s dart rage. “Also those fucking magic surges, apparently. We found three ruptured pipe-lines between here and Harlem.”

“And the Library still doesn’t know what’s causing them?” Quentin asks Kady, who makes a _‘fuck if I know_ ’ gesture.

“We thought it was just coming back waves once the siphon turned off, but it’s getting worse, not better,” she says, leaning against Julia’s chair, waving one of the sets of darts vaguely in Quentin’s direction until he takes it.. “Alice has a theory, but– honestly, she kind of deals with the theories. I’m just trying to keep the bitch running, if you know what I mean.”

“Is Fillory having problems with magic surges too?” Julia asks, a little while later, when Eliot returns from the bar with the next round. 

“No idea,” Eliot says honestly. “Margo hasn’t mentioned it. But honestly most of what I hear about from her these days is her personal drama. Apparently Josh and Fen fucked, and it’s big news.”

“I thought they were all together?” Julia frowns, eyebrows wrinkling in the picture of confusion.

“Me too, but apparently not. Or at least that leg of the triangle wasn’t.” Eliot shrugs, taking a sip of his Old Fashioned as Quentin whoops and Kady swears loudly.

“Honestly, there’s a simple way to solve love triangles,” Julia says with a sigh, and Eliot grins at her, looking pointedly over at Kady, who’s got her arms crossed over her chest, glowering at Quentin. “What, it works!”

“Oh, I know it does,” Eliot chunkles, wryly amused. Then suddenly he has a lap full of Quentin, giggly and squirmy.

“He says that,” Q says, conspiratorially, arm looping around Eliot’s shoulders while Eliot hooks him around the waist, both of them working in tandem to keep him in place. “But Arielle had to threaten him with a knife before he stopped being a dumbass about it.”

Q’s face is a warm, glowing thing, all crinkles around his eyes and the soft dimples in his cheeks as Eliot looks at him. It’s a good memory now, worn smooth and eroded, woven into the tapestry, the _mosaic_ of ‘the beauty of all life’ and Eliot just– loves him. So much. He fits his hand on Quentin’s thigh, warm muscle through the denim of his jeans, soft brown eyes reflecting the memory back at him: an understanding, and Quentin’s brilliant, beautiful girl. 

“She was smarter than either of us,” he says, face close in against Quentin’s face, warmth in his belly when it makes Q snort. Then he’s closing the hair's breadth of distance between them to kiss Eliot’s forehead, and what’s Eliot to do but catch his cheek, tug him in for a real kiss, soft and chaste, Q’s full lower lip between his own. And god– Eliot would just make out with him in this bar until they got kicked out, probably, if they weren’t here with _friends_ , if that wouldn’t be _exceptionally rude_. Quentin’s a little flushed, when Eliot backs off, and like– fuck, what did he _expect_ , sitting in Eliot’s lap and giving him those dimples, how is he _not_ supposed to get a little horny about it.

“I’m just saying, if we did that, he’d be a total bitch about it,” Kady saying, somewhere off to Eliot’s left, and when he looks over she’s sprawled in the booth with her arm around Julia’s shoulders, beer bottle in her free hand. They’re practically a butch-seeking-femme ad like this, Kady with her hair piled up under her beanie and her flannel and her crawling-through-the-sewers overalls, and Julia with her fitted sweater and leggings and knee-high boots, statement necklace and soft brown curls. It hits him some kinda way, the same feeling sticking and sliding in his chest, being visibly queer with other people being visibly queer, and feeling _safe_ doing, feeling _seen_ doing it.

“I would,” he agrees with a sigh, but makes absolutely no move to let Q go. No, instead he tugs him a little closer, so Quentin’s ass is flush with his hips, arms around his middle. Q allows himself to be manhandled, leaning comfortably back against Eliot’s chest, the side of his head against Eliot’s cheek. 

“Can’t reach your drink anymore,” Q points out, quiet, teasing, shivering a little when Eliot turns his nose in against the skin behind Q’s ear. 

“Guess you’ll have to pass it to me then,” he murmurs against Quentin’s ear, nuzzling. 

“Mm, nope,” Q says, decisively, then proceeds to squirm all over Eliot’s lap when he digs his fingers into Quentin’s side, which is– god. _Distracting_. 

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Quentin asks the table at large once he’s settled, having acquiesced to moving Eliot’s drink within reach.

“That the economy of the wizarding world in Harry Potter doesn’t make any sense?” Julia guesses, which makes Kady snort, rolling her eyes. 

“No– but I mean, you’re _right_ , it _doesn’t_. But– no, I mean. I was thinking that it’s been about a year since we broke Fogg’s spell.”

“When _we_ broke it, you mean,”Kady corrects, leaning more heavily into Julia’s side. “I don’t recall you having much to do with it.”

Guilt rolls in Eliot’s stomach at the same time Julia says, quietly, “Kads, that’s not his fault.” Q looks down, and the action makes his hair slide way from his neck, steadily growing out from Brian’s short style. Reaching up, Eliot smooths the hair off to one side so he can kiss the soft skin on the back of Quentin’s neck, rub his nose and mouth there gently. _I’m here, I’m here, I’m sorry_.

“Yeah, whatever. I know. Sorry, Coldwater,” Kady grits out, reluctant, but– sincere enough, and it’s progress, it is, Kady’s nicer to them now than she’s maybe ever been. It still makes Eliot prickle with irritation, but– Q’s hand catches his, fingers lacing together. Present.

“It’s okay,” he says with a shrug, “it’s just been a crazy year, right?”

“Somehow that’s starting to feel normal, I think,” Julia says, wryly little twist of her mouth, but she holds up her cocktail nonetheless. “Here’s to a year since Kimmy.”

Kady holds out her own bottle. “Sam was pretty badass, though, you have to admit. But yeah, I’d rather be me. Here’s to a year.”

“A year of not being Brian,” Quentin agrees, lifting his own pint glass, and then knocking it gently against Eliot’s rocks glass. 

“I’m not quiet at a year, but I’ll take it,” Eliot says lightly, letting the sweet-sour-burn of the whiskey and bitters slide down his throat, feeling Quentin relax back against him again. He’ll fucking take it, all of it. All of this.

He’s not letting it go.

___

Quentin’s sitting on the bed staring off into space, when Eliot comes out of the bathroom later that night, face freshly washed and ready for bed. A worn-soft t-shirt, just a little too big, hangs off Q shoulders, and he’s down to his boxers for sleep, arms around his legs. He’s such a hairy little thing, Eliot thinks to himself, smiling a little as he just– _looks_ , god, he’s still not bored looking at Q. The dark hair on his calves and on his wrists, the thin silver-white scars on the tender insides his arms, the gentle slope-peak of his nose. Even with his mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown, he’s gorgeous. 

But he is frowning thoughtfully, even as Eliot climbs up onto the bed next to him, swaying absently with the rocking of the mattress. “You okay?” Eliot asks, and Q blinks, focusing in on him. 

“Yeah, I was just– wondering I guess,” he says with a little shrug, brows pulled together as he looks up at Eliot. “Do you think you would have ever told me you loved me if not for the Monster?”

It is like getting hit in the head. Sound dulls for a minute, Eliot’s vision going gray, heart stopping. He can almost taste metal, too, sulfur and copper like god-power. “Uh–” falls out of his mouth, stunned, and then nothing else follows as he tries to get his bruised and aching brain to grind back into gear. 

His silence must read as something else to Q, though, because he’s nodding and looking away before the ringing in Eliot’s ears has even stopped. “Yeah, I guess I knew that.”

“No, Q. _No,_ ” Eliot rushes to get out, stumbling all over himself to reach out, slide his hands up along Quentin’s forearms. The hair is rough under his palms, and Quentin doesn’t lean away from him so that’s– so that’s good. “I think I would have _had_ to. There was no way, no _fucking_ way you were staying at Blackspire alone, and even if I’d been... I don’t know, less of a controlling cock about it, I would have– Q, I would have had to do _something_ , even if it was just fucking _staying with you_ , and that would have been hard to explain away.” 

“Yeah, especially after you told me to go be life partners with someone else for a little while.” Quentin says wryly, and Eliot winces, looking away. 

“Yeah, well, like I said. I was a cock.”

“That maybe gives a bad rap to cock,” Quentin says, gently, and when Eliot looks up, Quentin’s smiling, just a little in the corner of his mouth. “I like cock. I don’t like you picking my battles for me.”

“Yeah, message received, loud and clear,” Eliot snaps, hurt, and Quentin frowns again, shaking his head.

“No, that wasn’t– I didn’t mean it as a dig, I’m sorry.” He sighs, forearm slipping out of Eliot’s hand as he scrubs his hand up over his face, then pushes his hair back. “My brain is a mess, right now, I’m not trying to pick a fight. Jesus, I’m really not. I just keep thinking about– coming back to myself after being Brian, and thinking that you were _dead_ and that I was going to have to– fucking _kill your body_ , but all I could think about was that the last thing I’d ever said to you was when I was angry with you. And I _still fucking loved you._ ”

“I know,” Eliot agrees, heartsore. “I know you did. You loved me and you took care of me when I wasn’t there to see it, Q, I _know_ what you did.”

“Yeah but it’s just–” He stutters to a stop, blinking out into the room, squinting a little like the words he’s trying to find might be dancing in space somewhere. “It was like with Alice, again, except it still felt in my bones like I’d loved you for _so much longer_ , and then you were dead. And I just– I just keep watching the people I love die, Eliot, I keep– they all _die_ –”

“Sweetheart, oh sweetheart, come here,” Eliot whispers, arms opening for Quentin to lean into. It’s a little awkward, they’re not really positioned for this, but Q still fits in right under his chin, wrapping together like links in a chain. It still feels like exactly where Quentin’s supposed to be. 

He’s not crying, but he melts into Eliot’s arms anyway, wiggling and squirming until he can get in the front of Eliot's robe and press his face against skin. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” Q mumbles, mouth against Eliot’s collarbones. Eliot laughs, a little, even though it’s not fucking funny because he _almost was_. He’d almost died with Quentin thinking Eliot didn’t love him, and that’s just– he’s never going to be done being sorry for that.

“I love you,” he murmurs into Quentin’s hair, because he can fucking say it now. Now, and tomorrow, and next week, and in six months, and in a year he can say it, and he will.

“I love you too.” Quentin pulls back, eyes red, but he’s looking earnestly at Eliot. “I’m sorry I’m being weird about Valentine’s Day. Just like– nothing about how I feel about you seems like it fits in a card, you know? And I’m terrible at giving gifts. Julia helped me design those cufflinks I made you for Christmas.”

“I figured,” Eliot says fondly, reaching up to catch the strand of hair hanging in front of Quentin’s face, push it back. “Remember the year you got me a shovel for Ember’s Day?”

“It was practical! We needed one!” Which, really, was kind of the problem. It had been a silent and vicious fight, because they didn’t fight in front of Teddy but there wasn’t really anywhere else to go to fight either, so they’d just fucking– glared at each other for 12 hours, jabbing tiles into each other’s hands until Quentin had given up and admitted that it was maybe a shitty move to call something they were going to have to buy anyway a gift. 

“Baby Q, there’s no way I could fit everything you are to me into a single night,” Eliot says fondly, rubbing his thumb against the apple of Quentin’s cheek. “I don’t need to. I’ve got _years_ to do that. I don’t give a shit if you get me a gift or not–”

“As long as it’s not a vacuum cleaner–

“–as long as it’s not household equipment, yes,” Eliot agrees, smiling when Quentin does, “I just wanted to do something special because we can. And maybe show off a little, because hey. _This_ guy chose _me._ ”

“Pretty sure that’s my line,” Q mutters, reaching out to hook his index finger in against Eliot’s hand, shaking it a little.

“Nope. Definitely mine,” Eliot promises, and when Quentin dimples at him, Eliot leans in to kiss him softly. Quentin’s willing as ever, soft and pliable, eager to be kissed. Then, before he can get distracted by Quentin’s sweetness, his openness, Eliot pulls back to say, “Q, if you really don’t want to do anything, I can cancel the reservation–”

“No, don’t,” Quentin says, shaking his head. “Let’s do it. I want to.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Quentin nods, decisive, then leans forward to kiss the side of Eliot’s neck, the top of his chest. “I’m sure. I’m always sure about you.”

Kissing him is the only solution, really, to keep Eliot’s heart from crawling out of his chest.

___

He still buys flowers, though, because he can’t _not_ , okay? 

“They can be for the house, if–” he starts, unsure, holding out the bouquet of white lilies and red roses when he comes back from the afternoon walk with Lady Desdemona. 

“Fuck you, they’re mine,” Quentin says with a laugh, taking the flowers and sticking his nose in them. He looks over the flowers at Eliot, up under his lashes, and Eliot briefly debates abandoning the whole dinner plan to juts _fuck in the kitchen_ _instead_. But no, that won’t do, not when he wants tonight to be special, and wanting to rail Quentin over the counter is a fairly common feeling for him. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”

“Not even at like– graduation?” Eliot asks, a little surprised, and okay, fuck, he’s going to have do this again on a non-Valetine’s Day occasion, soon.

“Because my _Dad_ would definitely stop and get me flowers,” Quentin snarks with an eye roll, but he’s still looking down at the bouquet. “How do you even know what to get? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well, red roses are traditional, they’re for passion,” Eliot explains, touching the edge of one of the lilies. “The lilies are a bit of a departure from tradition, but they’re for– purity of love.”

“Oh, because our love is so _pure_ ,” Quentin snorts, giving Eliot a look that says he _knows_ Eliot was thinking about sticking his hands down Quentin’s pants 30 seconds ago, because _he_ was thinking it too.

“My _feelings_ are pure, even if my _intentions_ are not,” Eliot replies, haughty, earning himself a shake of the head as Quentin sniffs the flowers again.

“Thank you, El. I would never know how to do this for you,” Quentin admits, a little twinge of guilt on his face, and that– that right there is a big part of the reason he’s been hesitant about all of this, isn’t it? 

“I like doing it for you,” Eliot promises, stepping in close enough that he can touch Quentin’s jaw, his cheek. “Makes me happy to do it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin agrees, then he’s pushing up on his toes, nosing in for a kiss, soft and sweet. Then he’s pulling back, squinting at Eliot suspiciously. “No other gifts, though, right?”

“I promise,” Eliot laughs, hands up in mock surrender. “Unless you count my cock, in which case–”

"Oh Jesus."

"–I might let you unwrap that later," He finishes, smirking, while Quentin pulls away, shaking his head.

“You’re terrible. Why do I love you?”

_I don’t know_ , Eliot thinks, _please don’t stop, please don’t ever stop,_ he thinks. “Animal magnetism,” is what he says instead, and gets swatted on the ass with a dish rag.

The restaurant is good, if crowded. Apparently Mexican _is_ a hot Valentine's Day option, which is still a little strange, but Eliot can see the appeal of sharing food off the small plate menu. Their little table is set in against an interior wall, and they sit kiddie-corner so Eliot can feel Quentin’s knee bumping against his, can easily touch his side, be right up close for his smiles. 

Eliot had dressed the occasion, of course, subtly in a deep burgundy suit jacket and plum waistcoat. Q'd taken the simple approach, just his soft grey trousers and black button down, comfortably himself, right down to the dog hair. 

"Did you see the guy at the front in the like– bright red velvet suit?" Quentin asks under his breath, stirring his jalapeños margarita. "If he proposes in this restaurant tonight I will blow you in the alley."

"Not with that in your mouth, you won't," Eliot says, looking pointedly at the chunks of pepper floating in Quentin's drink. 

Q snorts, biting pointedly at the little plastic straws in his drink. "Don't worry, no peppers going anywhere near your dick."

It's fun, but mostly because it's Q. Eliot always has fun with him, with his snark and his enthusiasm, his bitchy judgmentalness and his sweet laugh. It's good, because it's them. The food is delicious but Eliot almost doesn't notice, caught up as he is in listening to Quentin tell a story about college. And there really is something beautiful about the way memories of the mosaic lived in their minds, because Eliot feels like he's known Quentin all his life, but doesn't remember the details of all of his stories. There's so many things to learn anew, with the solid foundation of a lifetime to build on. 

Red velvet suit jacket man does not propose. Quentin, clingy and relaxed, laments this as they weave their way out of the restaurant. It’s a fairly short walk back to the penthouse, definitely shorter than some of their dog-walking routes, and it’s unseasonably warm out, so Eliot doesn’t mind. Really doesn’t mind, with Quentin tucked under his arm, smiley and sweet. Waiting at a stop light, Eliot glances down to find Quentin already looking up at him, a small smile on his face. It gets bigger when Eliot meets his gaze, crinkling at the corners of his eyes and dimpling his cheeks.

“What?” Eliot starts to ask, but he only gets the word about half-way out before Quentin’s up on his toes, kissing him, cold nose against Eliot’s cheek. Eliot catches him, instinctively, hand tucking behind his ear, the other sliding over the heavy material of his coat at his waist. And he’s– straining, to kiss like this, pushing up on the tips of his toes, he’s so fucking– _small_ , Eliot wants to catch him, pick him up, pin him to something. Q’s mouth, his _mouth_ , sweet and soft, falls open easily when Eliot– _licks–_

They’re jostled apart by the flow of pedestrians around them, rushing out across the road as the walk signal turns. Eliot laughs, catching Quentin’s hand in his and tugging him out across the road, cheeks burning, stopping once they’re safely to the other side to kiss him again, short and firm. “You’re trouble,” he whispers against Quentin’s mouth, as Q _pushes_ up against him again, like they’re not in the middle of the fucking sidewalk.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” Quentin asks, like a dare, and it lights like fire under Eliot’s skin.

“Gotta get you home before I can do anything about it,” Eliot points out, because, well– fucking in an alley might _sound_ like a thrill, but that seems like one of those things that is probably better in the imaginiation. The walk back to the condo suddenly seems a whole lot longer, with Quentin playing with his fingers the whole way there. 

Eliot pins him to the wall of the elevator by his wrists once they get to their building, looming over him as he pushes his leg in between Quentin’s, thigh pushing up against where Qs soft and sensitive. It makes Q whimper, _delicious_ , as Eliot hovers over him, mouths _nearly_ touching. “This what you wanted?” he asks, quiet, as the elevator speeds smoothly upwards.

“You– _ah_ ,” Quentin’s breath escapes him as Eliot bites a sucking kiss in at the corner of his jaw, down to the tender span of his throat. “– you know what I want.”

Hmmm. Well, Eliot could probably make an educated guess. 

The bottom floor of the penthouse is blessedly empty, which is excellent because it means they can escape into the master bedroom easily. It’s a small matter from there to get Quentin pinned up against the door, wriggly little thing, mouth hot and wet and open under Eliot’s. He’s– _god–_ his tongue is velvet soft, when Eliot licks into his mouth, warm and inviting, and it sends a wave of heat down Eliot’s front. It coallesses into a sharp jolt of pleasure between his legs as Quentin sucks on his tongue and _moans_ , and yeah, okay, _yeah._

“You know I love you, right, baby?” He asks, tenderly, cupping Quentin’s jaw in both hands. Quentin nods, eyes bright, hot, a little smile on the corner of his lips. “Good, that’s good. I’m going to fucking _wreck_ you now, okay.”

Q actually whimpers, pushing up at him, mouth open. “ _Please_ ,” he pants, and Eliot grins. One more slow, tongue-fucking kiss, and Eliot pulls away. 

“Go get on your knees by the bed.” From the grin on Quentin’s face, you’d think getting to suck cock was a rare occurrence in his life. Eliot makes no move to pull away from him, still boxing him in against the door, leaving Quentin no choice but to wriggle out of Eliot’s personal space. Eliot catches his arm, appreciating the flex of muscle in his bicep as Quentin turns to look back at him, curious. “Get naked first.”

“Don’t want to do it yourself?” Quentin askes, teasing, but he’s already reaching for the buttons on his shirt, so Eliot just shakes his head, reclining back against the door. For once, for fucking _once_ , the stars have aligned and nothing in his body hurts, and he aims to take advantage of it.

“Nope,” he drawls back, popping the ‘p’ as he folds his hands over his stomach. “I feel like watching.”

Quentin’s cheeks burn blush-pink, but he does as instructed, stumbling out of his clothes in that graceless baby-fawn way of his. He really is incredibly, heartbreakingly adorable. Eliot can’t help smile fondly, watching him, even as his own blood runs hot on the anticipation of sex, of Quentin’s natural submission. Oh, sweet boy.

He looks up at Eliot from the floor, once he’s naked and on his knees. Eliot takes a moment just to look at him, appreciate, the solidity of him, ropy muscles and his thin chest, the dark trail of hair down his stomach. His cock hangs between his legs, half-hard and growing under Eliot’s gaze, which makes Eliot grin, pride and arousal sparkling under his skin like champagne bubbles. “You’re gorgeous,” he tells Quentin, casually walking towards him while he shucks his suit coat, unbuttons his vest, loosens his tie.

“You’re,” Quentin starts, eyes hot, then swallows looking up as Eliot comes to a stop in front of him. “– _unbelievable_. God, you’re so hot. _”_

Eliot hums, pleased, taking his time working his clothes off until he’s down to his button up and trousers. He watches Quentin’s face as his hands drift town to the button on his slacks, popping it open and unzipping. He can tell the moment Quentin realizes he’s not wearing anything else underneath, his eyes going wide as he groans, swaying forward a little like he’s being pulled by a magnet. “ _Jesus_ , Eliot, that whole time?”

“Mhmm,” Eliot hums, reaching out to slide his fingers into Quentin’s hair. Q sways into his hand, eyes fluttering closed and staying that way as Eliot draws him gently forward until he’s nuzzling in the open flaps of Eliot’s trousers, all sweet hot mouth and velvety tongue against the skin of Eliot’s lower abdomen. Sucking kisses pressing against his skin, Eliot groans, head rolling back on his shoulders as pleasure curls down between his legs, getting hard against Quentin’s eager mouth. Sweat prickles all along Eliot’s spine, where his shirt is trapped under his arms, at the backs of his knees as Quentin’s nuzzling exploration frees Eliot’s cock from his trousers. He’s getting harder by the second, but Quentin still looks up at him, a silent request for permission as his tongue darts out across his bottom lip, leaving it shiny and red. God, Eliot loves him so much.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs, nudging Quentin’s head forward with his hand still tangled in his hair. “God, Q, you have no idea– I just want all of you, all the time. I– You said you’d blow me and I spend the whole meal thinking about _fucking your throat–_ ”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Quentin groans, then he’s pushing forward, licking a messy stripe up Eliot’s cock. “I want it _all_ , El, Jesus.”

“Yeah?” Eliot groans, barely fucking managing to stay on his feet, in the face of Quentin’s eager mouth. One of Q’s hands curls, tender and gentle, around the back of Eliot’s thigh, while the other wraps around his dick, pulling it gently down to kiss the head, like a hello. It sparks sensation all the way through Eliot’s body and he gasps, then moans as Quentin nuzzles down to lick at his balls, a hot warm feeling that’s definitely easier to manage when he’s not trying to stay upright. “Gonna take it all, sweetheart?”

Quentin just hums, let’s himself be tugged back on task. The first slide into his hot wet mouth is like a wave of electricity through Eliot’s whole body. His nipples go tight against the fine material of his shirt, sweat prickling along his scalp as Quentin sinks down to the edge of his soft palate and then stays there, steady, sucking, working his tongue up against the underside of Eliot’s dick. And– _fuck_ , Jesus, usually his style was more ‘sloppy enthusiasm’ than finese, but he fucking _knows_ what he’s doing, knows how to suck dick, knows how to suck _Eliot’s_ dick in particular.

It maybe shouldn’t be blindingly erotic, but it is.

“ _Fuck_ , Q,” Eliot hisses out, hand in Quentin’s hair going tight until he moans, sending minute vibrations sparkling up Eliot’s spine. His hips buck forward a little, just an instinctive movement in response to the _overwhelming wave of good_ happening between his legs, but Quentin chases the movement, pushing forward and pushing until Eliot’s dick is sliding into his throat once, twice, three times before he’s pulling off to catch his breath. 

Eliot swears, holding on for dear life.

“Thought you were gonna fuck my throat?” Q asks, a little bit of challenge in his voice, and Eliot’s fucking sweating, he needs to get his fucking _shirt off_ while he has three fucking seconds to actually _think_. 

“I can definitely do that,” Eliot pants, as Quentin surges up, mouth against the skin of his belly, sucking kissing into the skin. Eliot’s hands drift back to his hair, cup his cheek, guiding him back downwards. “C’mon, baby, you feel so good.”

It’s so easy to get lost in it, once he gives in to the feeling. Both hands in Quentin’s hair, the illusion of holding him in place but more just– holding him. It’s anchoring, for both of them, as Eliot slides his cock into the tight channel of Quentin’s throat again and again. Wet tight heat, god, Eliot loves this, fuck who doesn’t? But there’s a special kind of eroticism in Quentin’s surrender, the way he keeps looking up at Eliot under those unfairly beautiful eyelashes, even after his eyes start to water. He’s _hard,_ Eliot can see it but he’d know even if he couldn’t, the way Quentin keeps pushing into his thrusts, his helpless moans give enough away to be able to tell. Eliot’s balls tap against his chin on every inward thrust and he’s just– clinging, holding on to Eliot’s thighs, his hips, taking it all.

“You’re so good at this,” Eliot pants, scraping Q’s hair out of his face and gathering it up, holding him, just– just fucking _holding him_ , while the animal need to just _fuck_ unspools in Eliot’s gut. 

The bottom half of Quentin’s face is shiny, wet from spit and tears and snot and Eliot’s pre-come, and Eliot drags one of his hands free to touch him there, drag his fingers through the mess. “Getting both of us so wet. God, you’re so messy baby, I want to fucking _come on your face_.”

Quentin jerks, whole bodied, eyes fluttering shut on a moan, hand flying off Eliot's hips to reach down between his own legs, like the idea of it is just _so fucking hot_ that he can't not touch himself. And, _fuck_ , Eliot has mostly just been spewing filth, but with a reaction like _that_ – "You want that, don't you baby, mm?" he cooes, and Quentin fucking pulls back until just the head is in his mouth, and very obviously nods. Then he just stays there, tonguing the slit while his soft plush lips work against the bottom of the head and Eliot's losing _his fucking mind._

Tight, hot pleasure curls low in Eliot's balls, as he gathers Quentin’s hair in one hand, reaches for his own cock with the other. It slick under his hand, and something primal inside him just _purrs_ at the thought that he's covered in Quentin. That he's going to cover Quentin in him, paint his pretty red mouth with stripes of white, mark him, so everyone knows he's _Eliot’s--_

Swearing, he pulls Q back roughly by the hair, fist flying fast as pleasure pools, low and tight and good in his pelvis. "Yeah, come on," Quentin goads, voice rough, _wrecked_ , from Eliot's cock in his throat. "Give it to me, El, mark me up."

Then he fucking– sticks his tongue out, pretty and soft and inviting on his lower lip and Eliot's just _gone_ , he's _gone_ , fighting to keep his eyes open to watch as his balls clench up and unload. Streaks of come splatter out across Quentin’s tongue, his cheek, his chin, one last weak pulse landing on his neck as Eliot comes his fucking brains out. It's literally maybe the hottest thing he's ever seen in his life. 

"Fuck, baby, _fuck,_ " Eliot groans, reaching out to _touch_ , smear the streak of white across Quentin’s wet cheek, rub it into his skin as he draws his tongue in and delicately– swallows.

Self restraint is a thing of the past, now, as Eliot drops down to his knees, nuzzling his face in to fuckin _lick_ at it, lick his own come from Quentin’s cheek and fucking feed it to him from his tongue. Q moans, sucking hungrily at Eliot's tongue, pushing his whole little body up at Eliot, cock wet and messy against the fabric of Eliot's trousers. Which he's still fucking _wearing_ , Jesus Christ. 

"You're so hard baby," Eliot cooes, reaching down to get his hands on Quentin’s cock, slippery wet with his own precome. 

"What're you gonna do about it?" Q slurs, hips working up helplessly into Eliot's hand, God, he's just– such a mess, and Eliot loves it, he fucking _loves it._

Q's easy to manhandle, compact little thing, and especially when he's like this, eager to go wherever Eliot puts him. It's maybe a team effort to get him up and on his back on the bed, calves hanging off the side as Eliot leans over him and _licks_ , a long stripe from the base of his cock to the tip. The salty, tangy taste is intimately familiar and Eliot groans, rubbing his nose into the crook of Quentin's thigh, breathing in the deep animal smell of him, musky and good. 

"Want you wet," Eliot breathes out, hooking his hand under Quentin's thigh and pushing up, until he gets the message and opens up to brace his feet on the bed, the vulnerable weight of his balls and pretty little hole on display. 

"God, Eliot, _fuck,_ " Quentin moans, head pushing back against the bed as Eliot nuzzles, nose and mouth against the hot soft skin of his balls. Gentle, soft, open mouth kisses against the skin, chasing Quentin’s needy little sounds as he takes them in his mouth one at a time, sucking. Q sobs, back arching, a little pool of precome spilling out on his belly.

"Messy," Eliot murmurs, nosing down to where that musky smell is sharpest. A discreet tut makes Quentin shiver as the cleaning spell takes hold, and then he's arching his hips up into Eliot's mouth. The sound he makes at the first pass of Eliot's tongue makes Eliot's own spent cock twitch, it's so fucking _hot_. 

Eliot licks at him, eagerly, kissing at the rim and getting him wet. Q's body moves in a wave, riding back on Eliot's tongue, _fuck_ , he wants to make Q come like this, with Eliot pushing into him here, just licking and licking until he can get his tongue inside. God, Q's so worked up from the blowjob, it's not going to take long.

"Touch yourself," Eliot murmurs, flattening his tongue against Quentin’s hole, running his nose forward so it digs in right up behind Quentin’s balls as he whimpers. Does as he's told.

It all falls apart very quickly after that. Q comes with a high sharp sound, baring back on Eliot's mouth, barely holding his own cock as he spends all over himself, come splattering against his belly and up his chest. It's so hot, the nasty animal part of Eliot's brain just feels _right_ about it, like fuck, of course Q should be like this, always, covered in come and trembling in pleasure. 

Eliot pushed up on the bed, climbing up on one knee to brace over him, kiss him through the aftershocks. Quentin kisses back, headless of where Eliot's mouth has been, God, there's still streaks of come on his cheek, that loan one on his neck. Eliot kind of wants to run his whole body against him. 

“See, that's the perfect Valentine’s Day gift,” Quentin sighs, voice hoarse, eyes fluttering shut as Eliot rolls off to the side, propping head up in his hand to just _look_ at Q. He looks _filthy_ and Eliot feels kind of unbearably tender about it.

“Being covered in come?” Eliot asks, teasing, and Quentin giggles.

He still nods though, a soft little “Mmhm,” of agreement as his eyes flutter open, satisfied smile on his poor abused mouth when he meets Eliot’s gaze.

“How are you real?” Eliot wonders aloud, reaching out to tuck a strand of Quentin’s hair behind his ear. “Sure I didn’t imagine you?”

“Pretty sure,” Quentin sighs, stretching, then making a face as the cooling come on his body tugs against his skin. “‘m sticky,” he says with a pout, like that’s somehow Eliot’s fault.

And well. It kind of absolutely is.

“Guess we better shower, then,” Eliot sighs, but– kisses him first, soft and sweet. 

Showering together in the cubical of the ensuite is never exactly practical. They barely fit, both of them in together. But just now Eliot doesn’t mind standing behind Quentin, back to chest, arms around him to help wash the mess from his belly. It’s more of a rinse than a shower, really, standing together in the warm spray and letting the water run over them, wipe the sweat from their bodies. Q’s clingy, like he always gets after sex, and really Eliot’s a little clingy too. Finds himself pressing soft kiss after soft kiss against the column of Quentin's throat, just because he can, because he’s allowed.

“Thanks for today,” Quentin sighs, turning in Eliot’s arms. “For the Valentine’s Day thing, I mean. It was fun. Sorry I was such a shit about it.”

“You’re allowed to not want things,” Eliot points out, gently, wrapping one arm around Quentin’s shoulders. The other he uses to tuck a wet strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear. “And I’m allowed to want them. If we can find a compromise that makes both of us happy, I think we’re doing okay.”

“More than okay,” Quentin agrees, face tipping forward until his nose is resting against the dip in Eliot’s collarbone, at the tender base of his throat. “I love you, El. Today and always.”

Eliot swallows, heart feeling– _so full_ , honestly. Pressing a kiss to Quentin’s temple, he murmurs. “Me too, sweetheart.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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